Slowly, as if a caress, the bruxa moved her tiny hands along the stake, stretched her arms out to their full length, grasped the pole hard and pulled on it again. Over a meter of bloodied wood already protruded from her back. Her eyes were wide open, her head flung back. Her sighs became more frequent and rhythmic, turning into a ruckling wheeze.
Geralt stood but, fascinated by the scene, still couldn't make himself act. He heard words resounding dully within his skull, as if echoing around a cold, damp dungeon.
Mine. Or nobody's. I love you. Love you.
Another terrible, vibrating sigh, choking in blood. The bruxa moved further along the pole and stretched out her arms. Nivellen roared desperately and, without letting go of the stake, tried to push the vampire as far from himself as possible—but in vain. She pulled herself closer and grabbed him by the head. He wailed horrifically and tossed his hairy head. The bruxa moved along the pole again and tilted her head toward Nivellen's throat. The fangs flashed a blinding white.
Geralt jumped. Every move he made, every step, was part of his nature: hard-learned, automatic and lethally sure. Three quick steps, and the third, like a hundred such steps before, finished on the left leg with a strong, firm stamp. A twist of his torso and a sharp, forceful cut. He saw her eyes. Nothing could change now. He heard the voice. Nothing. He yelled, to drown the word which she was repeating. Nothing could change. He cut.
He struck decisively, like hundreds of times before, with the center of the blade, and immediately, following the rhythm of the movement, took a fourth step and half a turn. The blade, freed by the half-turn, floated after him, shining, drawing a fan of red droplets in its wake. The streaming raven-black hair floated in the air, floated, floated, floated…
The head fell onto the gravel.
There are fewer and fewer monsters?
And I? What am I?
Who's shouting? The birds?
The woman in a sheepskin jacket and blue dress?
The roses from Nazair?
How quiet!
How empty. What emptiness.
Within me.
Nivellen, curled up in a bundle, sheltering his head in his arms and shaking with twitches and shivers, was lying in the nettles by the manor wall.
“Get up,” said the witcher.
The young, handsome, well-built man with a pale complexion lying by the wall raised his head and looked around. His eyes were vague. He rubbed them with his knuckles. He looked at his hands, felt his face. He moaned quietly and, putting his finger in his mouth, ran it along his gums for a long time. He grasped his face again and moaned as he touched the four bloody, swollen streaks on his cheek. He burst out sobbing, then laughed.
“Geralt! How come? How did this—Geralt!”
“Get up, Nivellen. Get up and come along. I’ve got some medicine in my saddlebags. We both need it.”
“I’ve no longer got…I haven't, have I? Geralt? Why?”
The witcher helped him get up, trying not to look at the tiny hands—so pale as to be transparent—clenched around the pole stuck between the small breasts which were now plastered with a wet red fabric.
Nivellen moaned again. “Vereena—”
“Don't look. Let's go.”
They crossed the courtyard, holding each other up, and passed the blue rosebush.
Nivellen kept touching his face with his free hand. “Incredible, Geralt. After so many years? How's it possible?”
“There's a grain of truth in every fairy tale,” said the witcher quietly. “Love and blood. They both possess a mighty power. Wizards and learned men have been racking their brains over this for years, but they haven't arrived at anything except that—”
“That what, Geralt?”
“It has to be true love.”
THE VOICE OF REASON
3
“I’m Falwick, Count of Moën. And this knight is Tailles, from Dorndal.”
Geralt bowed cursorily, looking at the knights. Both wore armor and crimson cloaks with the emblem of the White Rose on their left shoulder. He was somewhat surprised as, so far as he knew, there was no Commandery of that Order in the neighborhood.
Nenneke, to all appearances smiling lightheartedly and at ease, noticed his surprise.
“These nobly born gentlemen,” she said casually, settling herself more comfortably in her throne-like armchair, “are in the service of Duke Hereward, who governs these lands most mercifully.”
“Prince.” Tailles, the younger of the knights, corrected her emphatically, fixing his hostile pale blue eyes on the priestess. “Prince Hereward.”
“Let's not waste time with details and titles.” Nenneke smiled mockingly. “In my day, only those with royal blood were addressed as princes, but now, it seems, titles don't mean so much. Let's get back to our introductions, and why the Knights of the White Rose are visiting my humble temple. You know, Geralt, that the Chapter is requesting investitures for the Order from Hereward, which is why so many Knights of the Rose have entered his service. And a number of locals, like Tailles here, have taken vows and assumed the red cloak which becomes him so well.”
“My honor.” The witcher bowed once more, just as cursorily as before.
“I doubt it,” the priestess remarked coldly. “They haven't come here to honor you. Quite the opposite. They've arrived demanding that you leave as soon as possible. In short, they're here to chase you out. You consider that an honor? I don't. I consider it an insult.”
“The noble knights have troubled themselves for no reason.” Geralt shrugged. “I don't intend to settle here. I’m leaving of my own accord without any additional incentives, and soon at that.”
“Immediately,” growled Tailles. “With not a moment's delay. The prince orders—”
“In this temple, I give the orders,” interrupted Nenneke in a cold, authoritative voice. “I usually try to ensure my orders don't conflict too much with Hereward's politics, as far as those politics are logical and understandable. In this case they are irrational, so I won't treat them any more seriously than they deserve. Geralt, witcher of Rivia, is my guest. His stay is a pleasure to me. So he will stay in my temple for as long as he wishes.”
“You have the audacity to contradict the prince, woman?” Tailles shouted, then threw his cloak back over his shoulder to reveal his grooved, brass-edged breastplate in all its splendor. “You dare to question our ruler's authority?”
“Quiet,” Nenneke snapped, and narrowed her eyes. “Lower your voice. Have a care who you speak to like that.”
“I know who I’m talking to!” The knight advanced a step. Falwick, the older knight, grabbed him firmly by the elbow and squeezed until the armor-plated gauntlet grated. Tailles yanked furiously. “And my words express the prince's will, the lord of this estate! We have got soldiers in the yard, woman—”
Nenneke reached into the purse at her belt and took out a small porcelain jar. “I really don't know,” she said calmly, “what will happen if I smash this container at your feet, Tailles. Maybe your lungs will burst. Maybe you'll grow fur. Or maybe both, who knows? Only merciful Melitele.”
“Don't dare threaten me with your spells, priestess! Our soldiers—”
“If any one of your soldiers touches one of Melitele's priestesses, they will hang, before dusk, from the acacias along the road to town. And they know that very well. As do you, Tailles, so stop acting like a fool. I delivered you, you shitty brat, and I pity your mother, but don't tempt fate. And don't force me to teach you manners!”
“All right, all right,” the witcher butted in, growing bored. “It looks as though I’m becoming the cause of a serious conflict and I don't see why I should. Sir Falwick, you look more levelheaded than your companion who, I see, is beside himself with youthful enthusiasm. Listen, Falwick, I assure you that I will leave in a few days. I also assure you that I have no intention to work here, to undertake any commissions or orders. I’m not here as a witcher, but on personal business.”
Count Falwic
k met his eyes and Geralt realized his mistake. There was pure, unwavering hatred in the White Rose knight's eyes. The witcher was sure that it was not Duke Hereward who was chasing him out, but Falwick and his like.
The knight turned to Nenneke, bowed with respect and began to speak. He spoke calmly and politely. He spoke logically. But Geralt knew Falwick was lying through his teeth.
“Venerable Nenneke, I ask your forgiveness, but Prince Hereward will not tolerate the presence of this witcher on his lands. It is of no importance if he is hunting monsters or claims to be here on personal business—the prince knows that witchers do not undertake personal business. But they do attract trouble like a magnet filings. The wizards are rebelling and writing petitions, the druids are threatening—”
“I don't see why Geralt should bear the consequences of the unruliness of local wizards and druids,” interrupted the priestess. “Since when has Hereward been interested in either's opinion?”
“Enough of this discussion.” Falwick stiffened. “Have I not made myself sufficiently clear, venerable Nenneke? I will make it so clear as can't be clearer: neither the prince nor the Chapter of the Order will tolerate the presence of this witcher, Geralt, the Butcher of Blaviken, in Ellander for one more day.”
“This isn't Ellander!” The priestess sprang from her chair. “This is the temple of Melitele! And I, Nenneke, the high priestess of Melitele, will not tolerate your presence on temple grounds a minute longer, sirs!”
“Sir Falwick,” the witcher said quietly, “listen to the voice of reason. I don't want any trouble, nor do I believe that you particularly care for it. I’ll leave this neighborhood within three days. No, Nenneke, don't say anything, please. It's time for me to be on my way. Three days. I don't ask for more.”
“And you're right not to ask.” The priestess spoke before Falwick could react. “Did you hear, boys? The witcher will remain here for three days because that's his fancy. And I, priestess of Great Melitele, will for those three days be his host, for that is my fancy. Tell that to Hereward. No, not Hereward. Tell that to his wife, the noble Ermellia, adding that if she wants to continue receiving an uninterrupted supply of aphrodisiacs from my pharmacy, she'd better calm her duke down. Let her curb his humors and whims, which look ever more like symptoms of idiocy.”
“Enough!” Tailles shouted so shrilly his voice broke into a falsetto. “I don't intend to stand by and listen as some charlatan insults my lord and his wife! I will not let such an insult pass unnoticed! It is the Order of the White Rose which will rule here, now; it's the end of your nests of darkness and superstitions. And I, a Knight of the White Rose—”
“Shut up, you brat,” interrupted Geralt, smiling nastily. “Halt your uncontrolled little tongue. You speak to a lady who deserves respect, especially from a Knight of the White Rose. Admittedly, to become one it's enough, lately, to pay a thousand Novigrad crowns into the Chapter's treasury, so the Order's full of sons of moneylenders and tailors—but surely some manners have survived? But maybe I’m mistaken?”
Tailles grew pale and reached to his side.
“Sir Falwick,” said Geralt, not ceasing to smile. “If he draws his sword, I’ll take it from him and beat the snotty-nosed little brat's arse with the flat of his blade. And then I’ll batter the door down with him.”
Tailles, his hands shaking, pulled an iron gauntlet from his belt and, with a crash, threw it to the ground at the witcher's feet.
“I’ll wash away the insult to the Order with your blood, mutant!” he yelled. “On beaten ground! Go into the yard!”
“You've dropped something, son,” Nenneke said calmly. “So pick it up; we don't leave rubbish here. This is a temple. Falwick, take that fool from here or this will end in grief. You know what you're to tell Hereward. And I’ll write a personal letter to him; you don't look like trustworthy messengers to me. Get out of here. You can find your way out, I hope?”
Falwick, restraining the enraged Tailles with an iron grip, bowed, his armor clattering. Then he looked the witcher in the eyes. The witcher didn't smile. Falwick threw his crimson cloak over his shoulders.
“This wasn't our last visit, venerable Nenneke,” he said. “We'll be back.”
“That's just what I’m afraid of,” replied the priestess coldly. “The displeasure's mine.”
THE LESSER EVIL
I
As usual, cats and children noticed him first. A striped tomcat sleeping on a sun-warmed stack of wood, shuddered, raised his round head, pulled back his ears, hissed and bolted off into the nettles. Three-year-old Dragomir, fisherman Trigla's son, who was sitting on the hut's threshold doing his best to make dirtier an already dirty shirt, started to scream as he fixed his tearful eyes on the passing rider.
The witcher rode slowly, without trying to overtake the hay-cart obstructing the road. A laden donkey trotted behind him, stretching its neck and constantly pulling the cord tied to the witcher's pommel tight. In addition to the usual bags, the long-eared animal was lugging a large shape, wrapped in a saddlecloth, on its back. The gray-white flanks of the ass were covered with black streaks of dried blood.
The cart finally turned down a side street leading to a granary and harbor from which a sea breeze blew, carrying the stink of tar and ox's urine. Geralt picked up his pace. He didn't react to the muffled cry of the woman selling vegetables who was staring at the bony, taloned paw sticking out beneath the horse blanket, bobbing up and down in time with the donkey's trot. He didn't look round at the crowd gathering behind him and rippling with excitement.
There were, as usual, many carts in front of the alderman's house. Geralt jumped from the saddle, adjusted the sword on his back and threw the reins over the wooden barrier. The crowd following him formed a semi-circle around the donkey.
Even outside, the alderman's shouts were audible.
“It's forbidden, I tell you! Forbidden, goddammit! Can't you understand what I say, you scoundrel?”
Geralt entered. In front of the alderman, small, podgy and red with rage, stood a villager holding a struggling goose by the neck.
“What—By all the gods! Is that you, Geralt? Do my eyes deceive me?” And turning to the peasant again: “Take it away, you boor! Are you deaf?”
“They said,” mumbled the villager, squinting at the goose, “that a wee something must be given to his lordship, otherways—”
“Who said?” yelled the alderman. “Who? That I supposedly take bribes? I won't allow it, I say! Away with you! Greetings, Geralt.”
“Greetings, Caldemeyn.”
The alderman squeezed the witcher's hand, slapped him on the shoulder. “You haven't been here for a good two years, Geralt. Eh? You can never stay in one place for long, can you? Where are you coming from? Ah, dog's arse, what's the difference where? Hey, somebody bring us some beer! Sit down, Geralt, sit down. It's mayhem here because we've the market tomorrow. How are things with you, tell me!”
“Later. Come outside first.”
The crowd outside had grown twofold but the empty space around the donkey hadn't grown any smaller. Geralt threw the horse blanket aside. The crowd gasped and pulled back. Caldemeyn's mouth fell open.
“By all the gods, Geralt! What is it?”
“A kikimora. Is there any reward for it?”
Caldemeyn shifted from foot to foot, looking at the spidery shape with its dry black skin, that glassy eye with its vertical pupil, the needle-like fangs in the bloody jaws.
“Where—From where—?”
“On the dyke, not some four miles from town. On the swamps. Caldemeyn, people must have disappeared there. Children.”
“Well, yes, true enough. But nobody—Who could have guessed—Hey, folks, go home, get back to work! This isn't a show! Cover it up, Geralt. Flies are gathering.”
Back inside, the alderman grabbed a large jug of beer without a word and drank it to the last drop in one draught. He sighed deeply and sniffed.
“There's no reward,” he said gloomily. “No one
suspected that there was something like that lurking in the salt marshes. It's true that several people have disappeared in those parts, but…Hardly anyone loitered on that dyke. And why were you there? Why weren't you taking the main road?”
“It's hard for me to make a living on main roads, Caldemeyn.”
“I forgot.” The alderman suppressed a belch, puffing out his cheeks. “And this used to be such a peaceful neighborhood. Even imps only rarely pissed in the women's milk. And here, right next to us, some sort of felispectre. It's only fitting that I thank you. Because as for paying you, I can't. I haven't the funds.”
“That's a shame. I could do with a small sum to get through the winter.” The witcher took a sip from his jug, wiped away the froth. “I’m making my way to Yspaden, but I don't know if I’ll get there before the snows block the way. I might get stuck in one of the little towns on the Lutonski road.”
“Do you plan to stay long in Blaviken?”
“No. I’ve no time to waste. Winter's coming.”
“Where are you going to stay? With me perhaps? There's an empty room in the attic. Why get fleeced by the innkeepers, those thieves. We'll have a chat and you can tell me what's happening in the big, wide world.”
“Willingly. But what will Libushe have to say about it? It was quite obvious last time that she's not very keen on me.”
“Women don't have a say in my house. But, just between us, don't do what you did during supper last time in front of her again.”
“You mean when I threw my fork at that rat?”
“No. I mean when you hit it, even in the dark.”
“I thought it would be amusing.”
“It was. But don't do it in front of Libushe. And listen, this…what's it called…kiki—”
“Kikimora.”
“Do you need it for anything?”
“What would I want it for? You can have them throw it in the cesspool if there's no reward for it.”
“That's not a bad idea. Hey, Karelka, Borg, Carry-pebble! Any of you there?”